


Batch Brew

by stuckoncloud9



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Fluff, M/M, You know what I mean, not really "powers" but no one is wearing a cape or anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:46:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28915581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckoncloud9/pseuds/stuckoncloud9
Summary: Batch Brew Coffee, located in Gotham's less than illustrious East End, has a wide range of bizarre customers. But few are weirder than the shop's owner.(Coffee Shop AU Oneshots)
Relationships: Edward Nygma/Bruce Wayne, Harvey Dent/Bruce Wayne, Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne, Jonathan Crane/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 39
Kudos: 66





	1. Mint Mocha

“Riddle me this,” Edward said, leaning casually against the counter. “What does one have to do to get a  _ decent  _ drink around here?”

The teen barista stared at him, unimpressed. “Getting in line to order would be the traditional first step,” he said. “This would be the pick-up station.”

Edward’s mouth stretched into a fake grin. “I’m aware,” he said. “I was just in that line fifteen minutes ago.”

“Oh, good!” the barista said, clapping his hands together. “You won’t need directions, then.”

“Look—” Edward started, narrowing his eyes and glancing down to the barista’s name tag, “—Jason. I came to the pick-up station because it’s where the imbecile who ruined my coffee order was standing.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Well,” he said as he started to turn around, “if I run into any imbeciles, I’ll let them know that a man dressed as a leprechaun wants to talk to them.”

Edward’s eye twitched. “Very funny,” he snapped. “I wonder if your manager would find that humorous?” 

“Probably not,” Jason said, facing the machine behind the counter as he started on his next coffee order. “I’ve heard him laugh, like, twice. And I’ve been working here for three years.”

There was a pause.

“I’m saying that I want to speak to your manager,” Edward clarified.

“I know,” Jason said. “Bruce!”

“Yes?”

Edward barely managed not to jump at the sudden sound from right behind his shoulder. He turned, slowly. 

The man standing behind him was tall. Very tall. Too tall to reasonably be able to sneak up on people like that. Edward recognized him immediately: it was the pale man who Edward frequently observed stalking around the edges of Batch Brew, like some kind of coffee-obsessed ghost. A tall, conventionally attractive, coffee-obsessed ghost.

“He wants to speak to my manager,” Jason said, not looking up from his work.

Bruce’s brow wrinkled, almost imperceptibly. “Barbara is your manager.”

“Babs is doing inventory in the back,” Jason said. “An owner is the same as a manager, isn’t it?”

“Not remotely,” Bruce said. “Can I help you, Mr. Nygma?”

Edward decided not to ask why Bruce knew his name. He had a feeling that the man wouldn’t tell him, and then he would have admitted confusion for nothing. “You can,” he said instead. “There’s a problem with my drink order.”

“The problem  _ is  _ his drink order,” Jason said, finally looking up from the coffee machine. “Bruce, you should have heard it, it’s—”

“8.05 ounces of caffeinated cold brew, 3.45 ounces of  _ de _ caffeinated cold brew, 2.5 ounces of espresso, and 2 ounces of Green Mint Guittard flavoring,” Edward said, interrupting him. 

Jason raised his hands in the air, gesturing somewhat hysterically in Edward’s direction. Edward gestured right back at him, petulantly. “Well?” he asked, turning to Bruce.

Bruce was staring at him. “That’s not your usual order.”

Edward couldn’t tell if the owner was trying to creep him out on purpose, or if this was genuinely Bruce’s misguided approach to conflict resolution. 

“I...” Edward said, brow furrowing as he attempted to compose a response. “I, ah. No?”

Bruce continued to stare at him.

“...I’ve been experimenting at home,” Edward continued, unsure of what the man wanted from him. “That’s the exact amount of caffeine I require to make it through my entire work day at maximum efficiency.”

Bruce nodded, once, then tilted his head. “If you have the requirements to make it at home,” he asked slowly, “why are you ordering it here?”

This was definitely not how conversations between customers and store owners were supposed to go. “Because I... like the coffee here,” Edward said, not pleased that  _ he  _ had been put on the defensive. “And it’s on the way to my work, and the atmosphere is acceptable, and like  _ every other consumer, _ I occasionally prefer to pay other people to perform services I could technically do myself!”

“Order for Renee,” Jason said, placing a to-go cup on the counter. A woman came up to grab it, giving Edward a very weird look as she walked away.

Edward crossed his arms, somewhat self-consciously. “...Anyway,” he said. “I’m already seventeen minutes off of my routine, I don’t have time for  _ Jason _ here to make yet another drink that inevitably tastes like botched measurements.”

Jason scoffed, taking another order off the board. “Like I would—”

“Which is why I will be observing him every step of the process, to ensure he doesn’t make any more obvious mistakes,” Edward finished.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Jason said, disgusted. “Bruce!”

“I’m afraid this is a busy time of the day for us,” Bruce said. “But we would be happy to reimburse you for your drink order, given the... situation.”

“I don’t want a reimbursement,” Edward said, teeth gritted. “I want the coffee that I  _ ordered.” _

“And I want to kill my chemistry teacher,” Jason said. “But we don’t always get what we want.”

Bruce’s eyes flickered over to Jason at the mention of murdering teachers, but when he spoke it was addressed to Edward. “If you don’t want a reimbursement, then Jason can make your usual drink—”

Edward huffed. “If I wanted my  _ usual  _ drink, I would have—”

“—and I will personally prepare your order to your specifications on Thursday,” Bruce finished. “With an additional charge for the inconvenience.”

Now Edward was the one staring. “You... Thursday?”

“You don’t come in on Wednesdays,” Bruce said. “If you’re available fifteen minutes before your usual arrival, then the shop should be near empty. There would be plenty of time to ensure that my measurements are correct.”

His tone suggested that he did not think there would be a problem with his measurements. Edward wasn’t entirely sure what was happening. However...

“I’m available,” Edward replied automatically, then processed what he’d said. He successfully repressed a wince. “...At that time.”

“Then it’s a date,” Bruce said, turning to Jason. “Large mocha mint, one and a half shots of espresso. Is there anything else, Mr. Nygma?”

“Um,” Edward said. “He called me a leprechaun?”

Bruce gave Jason a look. His expression was almost completely neutral, but still managed to emanate disappointment. 

“He called me an imbecile!” Jason protested.

“Ah,” Bruce said, looking away. “You’re even, then. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go check on Stephanie.”

“Ugh,” Jason said. “Bruce, you have got to start trusting Stephanie.”

“I do trust Stephanie,” Bruce said. “I’m just also going to go check on her.”

“One fire,  _ one  _ time!” Jason called after Bruce as the man walked away. He turned back to the blender. “Just completely incapable of forgiveness. That’s his problem.”

After a moment, he slammed down a to-go cup on the counter. “Large mocha mint, one and a half shots of espresso, Edward Nygma,” he said. “Are we done here?”

Edward took the drink. “That depends. Did you—”

“Excellent, thank you,” Jason said, returning to his work on the previous order.

“I was—”

“OUT.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make a long story short (too late) I kind of hate-follow a Dragon Age fanfic writer who is a lovely person and beyond talented, but regularly posts things that drive me absolutely insane, the latest of which was that coffee shop aus are boring and she would never write one. I personally had never even considered writing a coffee shop au before reading this opinion from her, but for some reason seeing her say it immediately gave me the combined spite and inspiration to write four oneshots in a coffee-themed alternate universe. So I guess what I'm saying is that if you ever struggle with finding inspiration for writing, you should hate-follow someone with higher standards than you.


	2. Black

Most of his colleagues hated it, but Jonathan had always enjoyed teaching night lectures. Being trapped in a single room for three hours always made his students delightfully tense. Besides, Jonathan had always been a night owl. He was often more awake for classes that ended at 9pm than he was for classes that ended at noon. 

Still, a little chemical assistance never hurt anyone. (Well. Not Jonathan, anyway.) When he wasn’t distracted to the point of running late, he usually tried to drop by one of the coffee shops in the city on his way to the downtown campus. His favorite of late was a bizarrely spacious and well-maintained establishment that sold the cheapest coffee imaginable. He’d initially heard about it while eavesdropping on a group of students during his lunch hour; Gotham locals, unlike him, who had apparently grown up going to Batch Brew.

The average age of Batch Brew customers was about fifteen, which served Jonathan’s purposes just fine. The chance that he would run into any of his colleagues at an establishment frequently populated by screaming middle schoolers was slim to none, a perfect situation given that Jonathan got more than enough of them talking behind his back at work. The only downside was that then  _ he  _ had to frequent an establishment populated by middle schoolers, a demographic that Jonathan had little fondness for ever since being one. 

Thankfully, the teen inhabitants of Batch Brew tended to keep to behave themselves when the proprietor was around, which was basically always. Jonathan wasn’t sure he’d ever been in the shop when the owner wasn’t lingering around like he didn’t have anywhere better to be, which seemed unlikely given his expensive clothes and conventionally attractive appearance. 

Today he was behind the counter, which seemed unusual. Although given that the two teenagers wearing the black employee t-shirts appeared to be arm wrestling in one of the booths, his position was probably unavoidable so long as he wanted someone behind the counter.

“What is it that you pay them for, exactly?” Jonathan asked as he reached the register. He gestured back at the grunting teens with his thumb.

“Not much,” the owner said. ”Off to class, Dr. Crane?”

Jonathan’s surname had presumably been left behind on receipts, but he’d certainly never mentioned his profession, or his doctorate. The barest ghost of a smirk gracing the pale man’s lips suggested he was being unsettling on purpose, which Jonathan supposed it would be hypocritical to find irritating. Sometimes he wondered if the owner tried to scare away older customers on purpose, which made no sense. Rag-tag hordes of children made for a considerably less profitable customer base than employed adults. How did the man expect to pay for any of this?

“Yes, actually,” Jonathan replied. He kept his voice as bored as possible, which was not difficult given his high standards for unsettling behavior. “Any other pronouncements you’d like to make before I order? Perhaps the time and date of my death? Or maybe just the name and room number of the class I’m about to lead?”

The owner made a short, considering noise. “Intro to Chemistry,” he said eventually.

Jonathan restrained his smirk. “Reasoning?”

“100 level classes are the most commonly taught, especially among new professors,” he explained. “And whenever you come in, you smell vaguely of laboratory chemicals. I’d guess... the St. Cloud Hall of Science, room 227? It’s one of the larger lecture halls, so it would fit a class of incoming freshmen.”

Jonathan stepped backwards slightly, resisting the urge to smell his clothes. “Not quite,” he said. “Intro to Psychology. Room 130.”

“Ah,” the owner said, looking slightly disappointed. “Off by a floor.”

It was difficult not to be amused. “Do you think you’re something of a Sherlock Holmes, Mister...?”

“Bruce,” the owner said. “The kids seem to think so. Tim suggested him for Friday, actually. But a deerstalker hat and a pipe isn’t really my taste in Halloween costumes.”

Jonathan might have guessed that from the shop’s decor. Whoever had decorated the place had a serious taste for the macabre— lights were draped with dark fabrics and white webs, shadowy figures creeped in corners and behind doorways, and the bats hanging from the ceiling looked downright real. There was a haunting orchestral arrangement playing from  _ somewhere,  _ too loud to be ignored but too quiet and distant for it to be playing from the shop’s proper sound system. Had Jonathan known a place like this as a teenager, he doubted hell or high water could have successfully dragged him out of the establishment until Halloween was over and the decorations were removed. 

As an adult he found it far easier to contain his enthusiasm, though he could admit that he enjoyed the amount of attention that had been paid to his favorite holiday. Even the drink menu had been redone with “seasonal” names, which was presumably very confusing to anyone who didn’t come here regularly enough to have their order memorized. Jonathan personally had never even looked past his own order on the menu before, but now his eyes kept drifting towards drink names like “Witch’s Brew” or “Moonless Night.”

“What’s the ‘Ichabod?’” he asked, not entirely intentionally. 

Bruce’s lips turned up into what might have been the beginnings of a smile, though Jonathan wasn’t sure. It could have just as easily been a physical reaction to catching another whiff of laboratory chemicals. 

“Pumpkin mocha,” he said. “Interested?”

Jonathan must have looked more intrigued than he’d intended, because Bruce was definitely smiling now. “No,” he said quickly, “just the—”

“—house brew, medium, black,” Bruce finished. He raised a hand to the register. “I can ring that up for you. Or I can give you the Ichabod on the house. Your call.”

Jonathan narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “That’s generous.”

“Not really,” Bruce said. “It’s more expensive than your usual order, so if you drink it and like it enough to get in the future, then I’m making more money off of you in the long run.”

“Hm,” Jonathan said, not entirely believing this reasoning. Still, he’d been raised too much of a spendthrift to pay for a product when there was a free alternative. Besides, it wasn’t like people were lined up around the block to buy him drinks. “Fine. But it better not take any more time to prepare.”

“It will,” Bruce said, removing his hand from the register and heading back to the coffee machines. 

Jonathan watched him work, annoyed despite the fact that he was technically being done a favor. He glared over at the teenage employees in the booth, willing them to stand and help speed up the process, but they seemed as engrossed in their adolescent idiocy as they’d been when he walked in. As he stared at them, the girl with the short-cropped black hair slammed her male opponent’s arm down on the table for what had to be the dozenth time. He swore and pulled his hand back up, re-challenging her immediately. 

“Here,” Bruce said, interrupting his reverie. Jonathan turned to see the owner offering him a to-go cup, which even at this distance smelled strongly of pumpkin and chocolate.

Jonathan took it. “Thank you,” he said after a pause, his Southern sense of etiquette momentarily overwhelming his derision for the seeming generosity.

“See you Monday,” Bruce said. “Say hello to Molly for me.”

Jonathan decided to pointedly ignore the reference to his teaching assistant, instead taking an experimental sip of his drink as he made his way to the door. He really should just find a new place to go for coffee.

The Ichabod was pretty good, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two employees arm-wrestling on the job are Cassandra and Jason.


	3. Hazelnut Half-Caff

Bruce picked up on the third ring. He always did; it was predictable enough that Harvey usually hung up on the fourth ring, because if Bruce didn’t answer by the third then he wasn’t going to answer at all. Harvey vaguely remembered Mrs. Wayne having had a similar habit when he’d call Wayne Manor as a child, though it was so long ago that he couldn’t be sure now.

“Harv,” Bruce said. “Saw you on the news this morning.”

“Not bad, huh?” Harvey said, his grin from earlier returning to his face.

On the dashboard, Harvey’s cellphone crackled as Bruce made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. “You’ve certainly ruined Maroni’s day,” he said, after a pause. His tone was neither warning nor congratulatory, so Harvey decided to interpret it as both.

“Thank you,” he said, stroking his lucky coin where it was trapped between the steering wheel and his thumb. “I’ll be fine, Bruce. We’re finally cleaning up this city from the top down! Pissing off a few mob bosses is worth it if it means we can actually attack the problem from the right angle.”

“A few?” Bruce said, and Harvey could practically hear his eyebrow raise. “Harv, you wouldn’t be planning on pissing off multiple mob bosses at the same time, are you?”

“You have to break more than one egg to make an omelet, Bruce,” Harvey said, flicking his turn signal on as the freeway exit came into view. “Especially when most of the eggs are in cahoots with each other. If they aren’t all in the omelet, then even the eggs you broke can wiggle off the hook.”

“Solid metaphor,” Bruce said. 

“Don’t sass me, Wayne,” Harvey said as he turned into the ramp leading down to Gotham’s East End. “I had enough of that from the defense this morning. What do you want me to do, turn on my brain to have a conversation with my best friend? I only just got the chance to turn it off.”

“No, no, by all means,” Bruce said. “God forbid you use your brain while you’re driving and talking on the phone at the same time.”

Harvey sighed. This was exactly why he hadn’t mentioned he was in the car, though Bruce always managed to tell whether Harvey told him or not. Bruce’s concern over Harvey’s distracted driving might have been endearing, if it wasn’t entirely hypocritical. He didn’t think he’d ever been on a car ride with Bruce that didn’t eventually include that man pulling out his phone to call Alfred.

“Did you know that the accident fatality rate of motorcyclists is six times the fatality rate of passenger car occupants?” Harvey asked.

“Yes,” Bruce said, never one to let a rhetorical question go unanswered. “Why?”

“Just thought your efforts might be better served lecturing all those young delinquents of yours,” Harvey said. “Don’t half of them ride motorcycles?”

“More than half,” Bruce corrected.

“Hmm,” Harvey mused in reply. “I wonder how a bunch of teenagers could afford those motorcycles anyway? They all look pretty expensive for kids working part-time at a coffee shop.”

There was a pause.

“I’ve heard Cassandra does well at poker,” Bruce offered eventually. 

“Ah, yes,” Harvey said. “That explains it. Mystery solved! You should be out there solving crimes for Gordon, Bruce. I bet we’d have unraveled Maroni’s whole operation by now if you were on the case.”

“Maybe,” Bruce said. “Although this particular example would seem to suggest I’m best at solving mysteries when I’m the actual perpetrator.”

“Aren’t we all,” Harvey said, turning his car onto Third St. North. “Hey, you’d tell me if Batch Brew was just a front for some kind of wide-reaching criminal empire, right?”

“Of course not.”

“Great, thanks,” Harvey said as he pulled up outside of the coffee shop. He parallel parked along the side of the street, not bothering to put any coins in the meter as he got out of the car. “You know, I’ve completely lost track of why I originally called you. I know it must have been important, otherwise I would have just waited until I got here to pick up my...”

Harvey froze as he reached the entrance. 

“Yes?” Bruce asked as Harvey hung up, shoving his phone in his pocket as he threw open the door.

“I forgot to order!” Harvey shouted, stalking over to Bruce’s usual seat in the back booth of the shop. “Fuck. I’m in a hurry, too. Any chance you could have one of the kids—”

Bruce gestured wordlessly towards the cardboard drink carrier on the table next to him, not looking up from his phone. “Lavender latte for Grace,” he said, pointing. “Dry cappuccino for Rachel. Earl grey tea for Helena.”

Harvey breathed out a sigh of relief. “Oh thank God,” he said. “After  _ this  _ morning, if my team doesn’t get these in their systems before noon I think they’re going to collapse on me.” He glanced down at the fourth cup. “Hey, did you—?”

“Hazelnut, half caffeinated, half decaffeinated,” Bruce said, turning off his phone and standing up. “For Harvey,” he said, picking up the carrier and holding it out to his friend.

Harvey grinned. “You’re a lifesaver,” he said, clasping Bruce on the shoulder before reaching out for the coffees. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

Bruce’s expression was outwardly neutral, but Harvey had known him long enough to recognize the slight flush that indicated he was pleased with the praise. He shrugged as Harvey took the drinks from him. “You’d either show up late to meetings with coffee, or show up on time to meetings without coffee.” 

“And what a terrible fate that would be,” Harvey said. “See you this weekend?”

“Assuming you’re not too busy with the mob,” Bruce said, returning to his seat.

“Aw,” Harvey teased as he headed back towards the door. “You know I’d have to be up to my ears in mob assassins before I let them interfere with our quality time, don’t you Bruce?”

The last thing Harvey heard before exiting was the sound of Bruce loudly rapping his knuckles against the wooden table. He laughed as he headed back to his car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harvey's legal team is named after Grace Lamont (his fiance from Batman: The Animated Series), Rachel Dawes (the Harvey expy who I guess ended up also being Harvey's fiance in the Nolan movies???), and Helena Wayne (Bruce's Earth Two daughter with Catwoman, who was an attorney who started a law practice with her brother Richard Grayson).


	4. Eggplant Frappuccino

“No, it doesn’t have any actual eggplant,” the barista said. He spoke in a voice that implied he had already relayed this information too many times that day. “It’s just eggplant colored.”

The twelve year old standing in front of Jay in line put her hands on her hips, radiating confusion and frustration. “Then what does it taste like?”

The barista sighed. “Sugar?” he guessed. “It has mango syrup, but I can’t imagine you can taste much of that under all that colored crème powder.”

“Tim, ew!” the girl exclaimed. 

“How is that worse than if it was made out of eggplant?” Tim demanded. “If you think that’s gross, you should look at the ingredient list for those Happy Meals you always bring in. You  _ do  _ know we sell food here, right?” 

“Oh, whatever,” she said. “Just give me a strawberry smoothie, smartass.” She slammed a fiver down on the counter before walking away. 

“You’re never going to get a job here with a mouth like that, Carrie!” Tim called out as he rang up her order. 

“I did,” his coworker at the coffee machines said from behind him.

“Shut up, Dick!” the barista shot back, then looked embarrassed as Jay stepped up to the counter. “Oh, um. How can I help you?”

“You sure can, kiddo!” Jay said, beaming with excitement. “I believe that charming young lady said something about the eggplant frappuccino?”

Tim sighed, again. “It doesn’t have any actual—”

“I was here, Timothan,” Jay said. “Besides, I’m a longtime fan! Old Eggy and I go  _ way _ back.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “To... August?”

“Those halcyon days,” Jay said wistfully, rocking back and forth on his heels. Then he stood up straight, snapping to attention with a grin. “I’ll take an extra large, please and thank you!”

“...Of the eggplant frappuccino?” Tim asked, hesitating before punching the order into the register. 

“If you would be so kind,” Jay said, propping his elbows on the counter and holding his chin in his hands.

“It’s your funeral,” said the barista standing behind Tim.

“Dick,” Tim warned.

“Do you think we should call for an ambulance now, or wait until after his heart stops?” the barista continued, starting in on the order.

“Dick!” Tim hissed. “You know how literal-minded some of these kids are. If one of them actually calls 911, Bruce is going to be super pissed when the cops show up.”

“You heard the teen, Carrie,” Dick said as the girl came up to retrieve her smoothie. “If that man’s heart stops, you  _ cannot,  _ under  _ any  _ circumstances, call 911. There’s a chance that it might annoy Bruce.”

“Roger that,” Carrie said, poking a straw through the lid of her drink as she left for her booth of friends.

“Good soldier!” Dick called after her.

“Ugh,” Tim said. He plastered a grin across his face as Jay moved to take Carrie’s place at the pick-up counter, the person behind Jay in line stepping forward to replace him.

“I have to say,” Dick told Jay once Tim was busy with the new customer, “even Stephanie was shocked to see her drink of the month come back. I think she might have made it as a joke. It’s kind of hard to tell with her.”

“Well,” Jay said, eyes gleaming as Dick swirled whipped cream over the top of his drink. “If it  _ was _ a joke, let me just say, your Stephanie must be the Charlie Chaplin of novelty coffee drinks.”

“I will pass that feedback along,” Dick said. He topped it off with some purple sprinkles before setting the drink down in front of Jay, who clapped in anticipation.

Jay violently stabbed a straw into the perfectly whipped surface. “My compliments to the chef,” he giggled as Dick winced at the motion.

Dick waved him off and Jay wandered away, slurping loudly at his drink as he walked over to one of the booths in the back. It was occupied, though the dark haired man who sat inside didn’t even deign to glance up as Jay joined him.

“Hiya Brucie,” Jay said before taking another loud slurp of the purple coffee. “How’s tricks?”

“Hello customer,” Bruce said, still refusing to look up from his iPad. “I’m concerned that answering your question might be taken as an indicator that I’m interested in engaging you in conversation, so I will not be doing that. My apologies.”

“Oh, how am I doing?” Jay said, ignoring him entirely. “Well, a lot better now that my  _ favorite drink  _ is back on the menu! I thought this delicious eggplanty goodness was never going to pass these ruby lips again.”

“Hm.”

“Soooooo,” Jay said, leaning forward.  _ “Thank _ you, Brucie.”

“I can’t say I know what you think you’re thanking me for,” Bruce said. His eyes briefly flickered up from the table as he spoke, but dropped back down just as quickly.

“You know,” Jay said. “Two and a half weeks ago I mentioned to blondie that I missed her eggplant surprise, and now it’s mysteriously back on the menu?”

“If the decision to bring back the Eggplant Frappuccino was based on something  _ you  _ mentioned, why would there be a two and a half week delay?” Bruce asked.

Jay grinned. “Because then it seems like it wasn’t based on something I mentioned.”

This time, Bruce looked up to stare at him for ten full seconds before looking away again.

“I don’t understand how you could drink something with that much sugar in it anyway,” he said after a moment. “Shouldn’t a dentist be morally opposed to that kind of trash?”

Jay laughed. “Please!” he said. “If I could get all my patients hooked on these, I’d have a lot more money to buy my own!” 

“Morally questionable dentistry,” Bruce observed. 

“In the biz, we just call that ‘dentistry,’” Jay said. “But also, come on! It’s sugar. Sugar makes everyone happy! I’d rather see yellow smiles than pearly white frowns.”

“Sugar doesn’t make me happy,” Bruce said. “And I’m beginning to think you might not be a very good dentist.”

Jay huffed. “I was top of my class, I’ll have you know,” he said. “But to be fair, I only registered  _ in  _ that class because I thought being a dentist would give me better access to laughing gas.”

“Did it?” Bruce asked. He was using his finger to flip through pages on his iPad with all the rhythm of a man who wasn't paying any attention to what he was doing.

“No!” Jay exclaimed. “We don’t even _use_ laughing gas anymore. It’s all local anesthesia and acetaminophen. Much more effective, but just _so_ much less fun.”

“Yes, that’s what everyone wants in their oral surgery,” Bruce said. “Fun.”

“You jest,” Jay said. “But I have that exact motto written on the side of my dental practice.”

Bruce inhaled quickly through his nose. For a moment Jay thought he was going to sneeze, until he realized he’d just gotten the closest he’d even come to seeing Bruce Wayne laugh.

“You’re welcome,” Bruce said eventually.

Jay’s grin spread to an almost impossible width. “So you acknowledge that—”

“Don’t push it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Eggplant" is a running joke Stephanie Brown makes about the color of her costume; originally Joker's order was going to be a Unicorn Frappuccino a la 2017 Starbucks, but eventually I decided that Bruce's shop would probably have to have its own version, and that Stephanie would have been the one who created it. Looking at pictures, I noticed that the Unicorn Frappuccino was kind of a similar color to Stephanie's original Spoiler costume, and so the "Eggplant Frappuccino" was born.
> 
> Carrie Kelly is from Frank Miller's "The Dark Knight Returns." The idea of Joker being a dentist comes from the "Mad Love" episode of Batman: The Animated Series where he dresses up as Commissioner Gordon's dentist (in order to murder him).


End file.
